Stolen Remains (24 page)

“That man?”

“You accosted me outside of this home not long ago. You reeked of spirits and demanded that I tell Lord Raybourn you were waiting for him at your hotel.”

A light of recognition dawned in his eyes and he was immediately apologetic. “Ah, that. I’m greatly sorry. I’m afraid I was in my cups at the time. Mrs. Bagwell at the temperance society always tells me I’ll come to no good end that way. I suppose I’m too used to free living. When my notes were sent away unanswered, well, I took matters into my hands.”

Violet nodded her forgiveness. She was already mentally widening her circle of suspects who might have attempted to push her over Westminster Bridge, although she couldn’t imagine why he had a motive to do so.

“My name is James Godfrey. I’m a friend of Cedric Fairmont, Lord Raybourn’s eldest son. We served together in the Crimean War.” Godfrey paused, as though considering whether to continue.

Violet encouraged him. “It must have been terrible what you endured against the Russians, and you, too, have experienced a loss in your friend. I know the family was also most grieved by his death on the Crimean Peninsula.”

He clasped his hands together on his knees. It looked as though a giant arachnid had curled up and died in his lap. “That’s just it, though. Cedric isn’t dead.”

V
iolet sat stunned, but was saved from struggling to make a coherent response by the return of the Fairmont siblings and their spouses. Stephen, Katherine, Dorothy, Nelly, and Gordon arrived in reasonably high spirits, having just gone for a drive through Regent’s Park. It was a highly improper activity for a family in recent mourning, but most family deaths didn’t encompass quite so much tragedy. It was good to see them all smiling.

Violet introduced James Godfrey to them, and he repeated his statement about Cedric being alive. Their rare jubilance was terminated in a mere moment. The stream of Fairmont revelations seemed to never cease.

“Pardon me, did you just say my brother is still alive?” Dorothy asked. “That can’t be. He’s been dead for at least thirteen years. We never heard from him again after he left for the Crimea. He was formally declared dead by the courts seven years later. He’s
dead
.” She said it with emphasis, as if repeating it would make it so.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but that isn’t so.”

“Speak up, then, man. What are you talking about?” Stephen said. “What do you mean he’s still alive?”

“I first met Cedric on a ship bound for Sevastopol on the Black Sea. We ended up serving together in the disastrous Battle of Balaclava in October of fifty-four. During those dark hours, he told me of his family and his time at Willow Tree House.”

Showing little respect or pity for his past service and suffering, Nelly, in a sharp mood now, couldn’t control her tongue. “What else did he tell you?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Hmmph,” Nelly said, arms crossed.

“Cedric was promoted to lieutenant, and managed to secure me as his batman. He nearly died when we made the charge on the Russians. I was one of the lucky ones, coming out unscathed. He took a terrible wound to the thigh, though. They wanted to take his leg, but I wouldn’t let them. Spent weeks tending to him on the floor in what they called a hospital. Blood and excrement everywhere, despite the wood shavings thrown down to absorb it all. Rats as big as small dogs coming by on occasion to inspect Cedric’s leg, to test whether he was weak enough to be gnawed on as a snack.

“Cedric was an officer, so he was upgraded to a bed as soon as one was available. He might have gotten well sooner, but then cholera ran through the camp. I risked infection to make sure he was well. Cedric told me later that he was forever indebted to me for my loyalty and friendship.”

Godfrey pulled a cigarette from inside his jacket. “Do you mind?” he asked as he lit it. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and blew a great plume of smoke toward the ceiling. He was quiet several moments, as if gathering his thoughts as to what had happened next.

“Even after he recovered, Cedric was never quite the same, here.” Godfrey touched his temple with the cigarette between his fingers. “Got in a few scrapes he shouldn’t have, and I always talked him out of doing anything too foolish before he got into trouble with his own superiors. When the war was over, he decided he didn’t want to go home, but instead wanted to start his life anew. As I said, he wasn’t quite . . . right.

“I accompanied him to France, where we joined the
haut bohème.
Cedric’s aristocratic status enabled us to live a more privileged lifestyle, although we certainly embraced the unconventional, vagabond lifestyle after being so long confined to the rules and discipline of the army. Even more, we embraced the, er, generous nature of the women we met there.”

Godfrey flicked ash into the crystal ashtray.

“Alas, our money eventually ran out, even though we adopted the poverty of the regular bohemians. Cedric tried his hand at painting and selling his oils in the streets, while I attempted—quite unsuccessfully—to publish a memoir of the war. In due course, we decided we hated poverty more than we loved the kindhearted and affectionate women, so we traveled a bit more, sampled what else the world had to offer, and returned to England.”

“When was this?” Dorothy demanded. “Are you telling me that Cedric is here
now?
”

“Indeed, madam. We arrived a few months ago and parted ways. On pleasant terms, of course, but in the way that friendships will sometimes do. I’ve taken on odd work here and there, but haven’t quite found my legs, so to speak. I read that old Lord Raybourn had died, and thought I’d come around to pay my respects if Cedric was here, but I wasn’t sure if he’d ever returned home or not. I sent a few letters, but they went unanswered.”

Katherine looked at her husband. “We never received them.”

Stephen patted her shoulder but addressed his own gaze to Godfrey. “And so what made you decide to land on our doorstep, despite getting no response to your letters?”

Godfrey ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I came to the conclusion that after our run of poverty in France, he would be unlikely to stay away from his father, since old Lord Raybourn would be the one to fix all of his money problems. Cedric didn’t really have a reason to return to England unless it was to reunite with his family, did he?”

Stephen’s face was as white as a shroud. “But Cedric didn’t reunite with us.”

Godfrey frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. He must have shown his face to his father. This certainly dampens the purpose of my visit.”

“Which is . . . ?” Dorothy said.

“I was hoping Cedric might see his way to, er, rewarding me for my services during the war, as he promised. I showed the man a great deal of loyalty during his convalescence, and now he has surely inherited a great fortune. A few pounds sterling would be greatly appreciated.”

“You intended to blackmail my dead brother?” Nelly said.

“What? Of course not. First, he isn’t dead. Second, I have nothing with which to blackmail him. I just hoped he’d remember an old friend. I see now my hopes were misplaced.”

After letting them know that he had recently moved into new lodgings so that Cedric could find him if he showed up, Godfrey left. The room exploded in fear and anxiety, with everyone talking at once.

“How could Cedric possibly be alive?”

“How dare he hide from his loving family!”

“This isn’t right, no, not right at all. I say, it seems a rather nasty trick if it’s true.”

But it was Katherine, her voice barely a whisper, who asked the most pressing question of all. “Did Cedric kill your father to hurry along his inheritance?”

“Impossible!”

“Ridiculous! He’s still dead by all accounts. How could a dead man collect an inheritance?”

“I’d kill Cedric myself if he were here right now.”

“He must have figured he’d never be caught because he was presumed dead, and now he plans on somehow returning and blackmailing us,” Nelly said.

Dorothy gave her a look of disdain. “Blackmail us over what, you nitwit?”

“There are plenty of secrets in this house.”

“Hah! As if you wouldn’t run straight to the newspapers if you had hold of a single juicy morsel.”

“I never—”

Violet cleared her throat loudly to interrupt the squabbling. “Pardon me, but may I suggest that if your elder brother is alive, we should find him? It would clear up many questions.”

“Yes, of course you’re right,” Gordon said. “After all, we don’t know this Godfrey brute from any other street person. He may have read the old man’s death notice in the papers, which surely included a note about Cedric’s death during the war, and decided to capitalize on it. How difficult would it be to make up such a story? Tending to Cedric on a hospital floor, indeed. He probably did intend to blackmail the family. Or garner false pity, and reap some rewards from the disbursement of the will. You are clever as always, Nells.” He gazed adoringly at his wife.

“I’ll go to Scotland Yard with this revelation tomorrow,” Violet said. “Hopefully, we can determine the truth of Mr. Godfrey’s story, and, if it’s true, it will lead us to Cedric.”

Stephen couldn’t contain his disdain. “A lot of good that will do. The police couldn’t find someone if he was hiding inside their overcoats.”

After supper, Violet spent an odd evening in the drawing room with the entire Fairmont family, except for Toby, who showed up just as supper was served and went upstairs as soon as he finished wiping his mouth with his napkin. In total silence, everyone sat at his own activity. The sisters read books, Stephen had a newspaper spread in his lap, and Gordon surrounded himself with trays of pinned butterflies as he flipped through an illustrated guide to the winged beauties.

Violet sat quietly with her lists, reviewing them and crossing off things that no longer seemed relevant, as well as adding in information about Godfrey’s unexpected visit. It felt productive, but wasn’t actually getting her any closer to an answer regarding the whereabouts of Lord Raybourn’s remains, or whether it was a suicide or murder. There were no interruptions, save a friend of Toby’s. With barely a nod to acknowledge the family, the friend scurried up to Toby’s room.

When she could no longer keep her eyes open, Violet decided it was as good a reminder as any that a night of sleep would work wonders on her mind’s prowess, which seemed utterly devoid of cogent thought these days.

She said good night and went upstairs, but once again found herself pausing on the stairs leading up to the attic rooms. Toby and the friend were talking, and what Violet overheard was disturbing.

“. . . have your uniform yet?” the friend said.

“Yes, I’m to be made lieutenant in his army.”

“Already? Training is two years.”

“. . . special dispensation . . . my family’s position.”

The friend grunted. “Naturally . . . outpost you’ll join?”

“Someplace far from here, I hope.”

Whose army was Toby talking about? Was he involved in some sort of insurrectionist movement? Bored young men were easily led into the worst sorts of societies, most of them sounding perfectly idealistic, but ultimately proving to embrace wretched, ill-conceived notions.

Violet’s heart sank to think that Toby might be involved with a group that might lead to his own injury or death—or to that of others.

She continued slowly up to her room, completely mystified over what to do about it.

A few minutes later, Violet heard Toby see his friend out. Despite sensing the impropriety of snooping, she hurried to her window overlooking the street below, in the hope of learning more about what they were up to. The gas lamps illuminated the street in a shadowy way, casting erratic light on people scurrying to and fro. Even in a quality neighborhood like Mayfair, it wasn’t wise to spend much time in the streets after dark.

Her attention was captured as she saw Toby’s friend leave Raybourn House and step into the street. He was almost immediately approached by a man who stepped out from somewhere in the shadows beyond the reach of the streetlamps. The two entered into earnest conversation.

Violet extinguished her own lamp and pressed her face closer to the glass in order to see more clearly.

What in heaven’s name . . . ??

It was James Godfrey talking to Toby’s friend. The two were arguing—no, wait . . . they were merely enthusiastic. How did Godfrey know Toby and his friend? What could they possibly have to discuss? Had Toby been aware of Cedric’s existence long ago? If so, why hadn’t he told anyone? The young man was full of secrets, for sure.

The two men clasped hands and parted ways. Violet lit her lamp again, and sat down on the bed in her most unladylike fashion, chin in palm and elbow on knee, in order to think. Despite her determined appearance, her thoughts were a scrambled mess as she reflected on the conflicting possibilities.

One thing she did know: Mrs. Peet had certainly had an interesting view down on the aristocratic world.

The next morning, Violet rose early in order to make amends with Hurst by keeping him informed in a more timely manner on new facts. Inside the same interview room where she had spoken with him before, Violet laid out for Inspector Hurst everything that had occurred in the past few days, from the bridge incident to the futile coffin hunt to James Godfrey’s unfortunate visit. Hurst nodded periodically as he listened, as though Violet had said something of vital significance.

“The puzzle has more pieces than I thought. It would seem you are now one of them, Mrs. Harper.”

“I can’t imagine why someone would want to harm me. I’ve been thinking it over, trying to make sense of it all. Stephen believes whoever it was only intended to distract us from returning to our carriage too quickly. But I wonder, is it possible that whoever pushed me at the bridge thought I was someone else?”

“If true, the only person it could be is Stephen’s wife. What other woman wearing mourning would reasonably be out with him at dawn?”

“You’re right, of course. I can’t imagine why someone would want to harm Katherine.”

“My instincts tell me that you were a specific target, Mrs. Harper, but we can’t rule anything out.”

“Is there anything you
have
ruled out?”

Hurst scowled. “We’ve so little to go on. Of course, the queen’s interference created this additional affliction of the kidnapping, since Lord Raybourn was not buried promptly. So the primary question is, who killed Lord Raybourn? Secondarily, who killed his housekeeper?”

“So now you don’t believe she committed suicide, either?”

Hurst cleared his throat. “Ahem. She may have; it’s impossible to say.”

Hurst continued. “Our third question is, who kidnapped Lord Raybourn’s body? Our last and most puzzling question is, why was he kidnapped? The answers to these questions might point to one person or several people. There may also be circumstances we do not yet understand. For example, his kidnapping may have nothing to do with him personally.”

Violet struggled with impatience. The detective was sermonizing on what she already knew. The interview room’s door opened and Inspector Pratt entered. “Sir, I’ve written up the details of our visit with the theater owner whose ticket seller was murdered—oh, Mrs. Harper, a delight to see you.”

Hurst motioned for him to take the other chair in the room. “Mrs. Harper has just informed me of some interesting happenings in connection with the Lord Raybourn case. Mrs. Harper?”